Don’t bother me.
The butterfly’s loping flight
carries it through the country of the leaves
delicately, and well enough to get it
where it wants to go, wherever that is, stopping
here and there to fuzzle the damp throats
of flowers and the black mud; up
and down it swings, frenzied and aimless; and sometimes
for long delicious moments it is perfectly
lazy, riding motionless in the breeze on the soft stalk
of some ordinary flower.
The god of dirt
came up to me many times and said
so many wise and delectable things, I lay
on the grass listening
to his dog voice,
frog voice; now,
he said, and now,
and never once mentioned forever,
which has nevertheless always been,
like a sharp iron hoof,
at the center of my mind.
One or two things are all you need
to travel over the blue pond, over the deep
roughage of the trees and through the stiff
flowers of lightning — some deep
memory of pleasure, some cutting
knowledge of pain.
But to lift the hoof!
For that you need
For years and years I struggled
just to love my life. And then
rose, weightless, in the wind.
“Don’t love your life
too much,” it said,
into the world.
i sat down to write a thing
and that thing said “well, no, you actually sat down to write this thing”
and that thing said “hello! im here! im sorry though, but
im not the thing either. the things coming along now.
just wait a moment.”
here was the thing!
it arrived and said:
its not me either.
the thing really is coming though.
listen for it.
here it comes.”
at long last,
here it was!
the real, honest-to-goodness thing!!
“i am not the thing. wait here, it should be along in a bit.”